


Changing Winds

by SpaceWall



Series: Dawn [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Brothers, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Love, M/M, Marriage, Secret Relationship, Valinor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Fingon and Maedhros eloped (kind of). It was lovely, but unfortunately, it now falls to them to talk to all the family members who they didn't invite. They've kept this secret for literally thousands of years, from everyone they loved. But now, in this brave new world, they can have the difficult or surprisingly easy conversations they'd never dreamed of before.In which Turgon, Fingolfin, and Finrod are all interesting and surprising in their own unique ways, while Maedhros and Fingon just love each other a lot.





	Changing Winds

**Author's Note:**

> This story contain Maedhros, and therefore, as usual, contains all of the usual sorts of triggers one might expect from a newly reincarnated Maedhros. If that's liable to bother you, then feel free to skip this instalment. Look after yourself.

“Listen, Turno, I didn’t mean to not invite you to the wedding.” Fingon knew that this was not off to a good start. “It’s just that we were sort of rushed, and I wasn’t sure that you’d want to come anyway. You and Maedhros never really got on before anyhow, and now-“

“Now he’s the person who kidnapped my great-grandsons. I’m aware.”

This was not the first apology visit that Fingon had made over the matter of his marriage, and it would not be the last. First on the list of apologies had been Uncle Finarfin, as the High King, who seemed disconcertingly pleased by the whole affair. Finrod was after Turgon, though he was far less likely to be pleased than his father. After all, Finrod had some reason to feel unfavourable towards the house of Fëanor. Perhaps, in fact, it might be better to leave the matter of Finrod for some time. 

“I think you’ll find that it was a little more complicated than that. After all, Eärendil seems at peace with the affair. He spoke for Maedhros’s release.”

“And what would Eärendil know?” Turgon asked nonsensically. 

“They’re his sons, Turno. I would think that he would know if anyone would. And besides, you’ve never even met those boys. What would you know?”

Turgon made a frustrated noise. “What would I know? Fingon, they literally call me Turgon the wise. I know lots of things. Like, for example, that trusting the sons of Fëanor is proven to be a very bad idea.”

Fingon clenched his fists, and tried very hard not to strangle his brother. Fortunately, they were saved by the entrance of Elenwë, who was blissfully ignorant of Fingon’s new marital status, though Fingon knew that Turgon would tell her the second he left. For now, however, Elenwë brought a moment’s respite and pleasant conversation. Her presence seemed to calm Turgon greatly, and when she left, their argument was replaced by level-headed discussion. 

“Well, I suppose it’s rather late to dissuade you from marrying him now, but if you’d be willing to answer a couple of questions for me, I would be grateful.”

Fingon considered this, but in the end, he nodded. “I suppose it depends on the questions, but I’ll willingly answer most things.”

Turgon looked down at his hands before beginning with his questions. Fingon’s little brother had always been a serious sort, and his time in Middle Earth had only made him more so. Since they’d been allowed to return to life, Turgon had improved some. Reuniting with Elenwë had done him wonders, a fact about which Fingon, and the rest of the family, was relieved. 

“I suppose if I’m to start with an easier question, I must ask- how did you ever convince a son of Fëanor that remarriage was acceptable?”

Fingon took this peace offering for what it was, and laughed, letting a smile grace his face. “I don’t know if we ever thought of it quite like that. What you should know, before you ask anything else, is that Maedhros and I have been together for a very long time. Almost since we were children, I have loved him, and he has loved me. I loved him before the oath, and after it. He loved me, even when I put duty over him time and time again, even when I cut off his hand. Gil-galad’s mother knew, and was under no illusions as to the nature of our marriage. What she wanted then was for our people to be strong, and for her to have a son. What she wants now is to be left in peace, and she has no reason to be unhappy that I am finally able to have the person I love.”

“A complex answer for a simple question. How is Gil-galad taking it?” Turgon had relaxed as Fingon spoke, leaning back into his chair, looking as calm as Turgon ever did.

“Not badly, all things considered. He came to the wedding, which was something. I believe that given time, he and Maedhros will get along just fine. In some ways, they’re very much alike. I suspect it may be the unconscious effect of the time that Maedhros spent with him when Gil-galad was very young. Though he doesn’t even remember that, so who’s to say?”

Turgon looked down at his hands for a long moment before asking his next question. Fingon braced himself for the worst. “How is father taking it?” There it was. 

Fingon shook his head ruefully. “Not well. He’s very angry, though whether it’s the marriage, or the secrecy, or Maedhros in general, or some combination of the three, I can’t say.”

Turgon’s face grew unreadable. “You cannot have thought that he would take it well.”

“No,” Fingon admitted, considering the question. “But I spent far more time worrying about how Fëanor would take the news. He, at least, is predictable. If we ever see him again, I can guarantee that he will shout at me to get away from Maedhros, and then Maedhros will probably just walk away, and Fëanor will stew about it until Nerdanel shakes some sense into him. With father, I knew that he wouldn’t be happy, but I thought that he would be able to accept that Maedhros makes me happy.”

“Did he yell?” Turgon asked.

“No. I think that was the worst part. He didn’t say anything at all. I went in, and I told him and mother together. And as I spoke he just looked angrier and angrier until he stood and walked out.”

The nameless emotion on Turgon’s face finally resolved itself into sympathy. He leant forward, and placed a steady hand on Fingon’s knee. “He makes you happy?” Fingon nodded, definitively. “Good. Then that at least is dealt with. As for father, he will come around, given time. He’s merely adjusting.” 

Fingon pulled his little brother into a tight hug.

\--

Maedhros, returning from speaking to Celebrimbor, made it all the way up the steps, and had the door partway open before he realized that something was amiss. He turned, and stared hard at the person who was watching him. “Fingon’s not here right now,” he told his father-in-law. 

Fingolfin, from where he stood suspiciously in the shade of a tree, emerged. Maedhros had not seen him for thousands of years, but in neither appearance nor in attitude was he greatly changed. Though he was no king on these shores, having long left that title to Finarfin, he still carried himself regally, and with great confidence. His natural confidence was something that Maedhros almost found he envied. 

“I’m not here to speak to him,” Fingolfin told Maedhros, ominously. That should not have been surprising. After all, in the months since Maedhros and Fingon’s wedding, Fingolfin had not spoken to Fingon at all. Yet, despite that, Maedhros had assumed that his honourable uncle would have come to make peace, not war. Another miscalculation. 

“Well, I suppose you had better come inside.” Maedhros opened the door, and stood, holding it, for several long seconds while Fingolfin remained unmoving. “Or perhaps, you would rather have this conversation outside,” he amended, and let the door swing shut once more. 

It was not an altogether unpleasant afternoon. Though it had rained earlier, the sun had been shining since, and small raindrops shone like diamonds at the tips of grass blades, and the edges of leaves. Because of the rain, he and Fingon had taken the cushions from the chairs on the porch inside, so Maedhros just sat on the wicker frame, and eyed his father-in-law. This proved to be a mistake, as without the cushion, the chair was too short for Maedhros to sit in comfortably. Under Fingolfin’s watchful eyes, he slid off the chair, and onto the ground. Fingolfin crossed the space between them to tower above Maedhros for the first time since Maedhros had been an elfling.

“What would you say to me?” Maedhros used his years of training in demonstrating dignity and nobility to stand up to Fingolfin. It was a pleasure to be able to use his gifts in such a small matter. Once, he had used them in family matters, pretending to be above the squabbles of his brothers. None of them had ever quite been able to match him in this ability. Curufin had been steadier of face, but more prone to bouts of anger, while Maglor had been better with words and quips, but unable to resist using them. So, in Maedhros’s own way, he had been able to bicker with his siblings by playing at being above bickering at all. 

Fingolfin looked down at Maedhros with a look of utter distaste. “Don’t play at being your father, boy- it doesn’t suit you.”

“It doesn’t suit you either. I expected this sort of pettiness from him, not you. My father was supposed to be the one storming around, treating Fingon as though he wasn’t fit to walk upon the same ground as us. What ever happened to your wisdom, Nolofinwë?”

Maedhros knew, as he uttered the words, that he should not have said them. It was what Maglor might have said under the same circumstances. None of Maedhros’s other brothers would have thought ill enough of their father to say it. In Maedhros’s experience, taking one’s social cues from Maglor was a bad idea. He was smarter than the average elf, that was true. But Maglor had never had much of a sense of propriety. Certainly, not the kind that Maedhros normally practiced. 

“Perhaps, I only wish what is best for my son,” Fingolfin snapped. “Like, for example, not to be stuck with the sort of people who feel he isn’t fit to walk the same ground as them.”

Maedhros sucked a breath in through his teeth, and re-evaluated his strategy. “Then you should know that I hold Fingon in the highest regard. In his wit, in his goodness, in his generosity, in his beauty, I find him unparalleled. I want nothing more than to see him well, and happy.”

“And you believe that you make him happy?”

Maedhros shook his head ironically. “I am not so bold, these days. I believe that, for whatever reason, whatever undeserved blessing upon me, Fingon has decided that he wants me. In body, heart, and soul. I would not deny him that. I would not deny him anything.”

Fingolfin looked down at his hands, face unreadable. In some ways, he shared his looks with Maedhros’s father, but in other ways, they were very different. For example, Fëanor wore all emotions clearly on his face. It was impossible to think that his feelings were anything other than what they truly were. Fingolfin was the opposite, always able to hide his darker feelings. Interestingly, this was not merely a difference caused by their mothers. Lalwen was no more able to hide her feelings than Fëanor had ever been. 

“Fingon told me that this had been going on behind my back for many years. Is that true?”

Maedhros gave a deferential nod. “Sadly, it is. Behind your back, behind my father’s back, behind the backs of our mothers and brothers, and Fingon’s sister’s too. I have no reason to believe that anyone knew, save the two of us. Or if they did, they worked it out on their own. Certainly, my father never knew. He would probably have disowned me if he had.”

An expression that Maedhros could not name crossed Fingolfin’s face. It was something between pity, sorrow, and anger. “I am not the last person to speak ill of Fëanáro, and I may in fact have been the first, but even I will give him this. He loves his sons. He would have been horrible to Fingon, but he would have forgiven you, in time.”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros admitted. “It would have depended when he had found out. Early on, he might have been forgiving, but I doubt Fingon and I were yet strong enough to weather that storm. Later, when he was paranoid, and saw you as his greatest enemy? I would surely have been thrown out, and Fingon would have been lucky to escape with all his limbs attached. And I know something about the likelihood of escaping with limbs attached.”

Fingolfin’s mouth dropped open at Maedhros’s admittedly slightly morbid joke. He seemed unsure if he should acknowledge it or not. That was, in part, why Maedhros made such jokes. To encourage people to acknowledge all that had happened to them all in Middle Earth. It was not right for it to go unspoken of and unremembered.

“You may speak of it,” he told Fingolfin. “And of my death and crimes, too, should you wish it. I shall not break. Do not think that I have no regrets. I do. I regret more things than most people ever do. But I know the harm such actions do, body and soul, and I would not have any make the mistakes I have made. I would have my deeds, all those that were ill done as well as the few that were good, remembered.”

“You think such a thing is for the best? You do not believe that it would do more harm than good to speak of how you did take your own life?” 

Maedhros considered the point. “No, I do not.”

Fingolfin seemed almost outraged by this. “You practically create a new crime all of your own, and you would have it taught?”

For the second time in that conversation, Maedhros snapped. “Do not excoriate me for my deeds when you have done something in kind. Fighting Morgoth? That was death as surely as I chose it and do not delude yourself into believing otherwise.”

Fingolfin sat down hard, across from Maedhros, and looked him dead in the eyes for the first time in their conversation. They maintained eye contact for a long moment before Maedhros looked away. It was not fear that drive him to break eye contact, but guilt. 

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros apologized, “That was out of line, and I should not have said it.”

“No,” Fingolfin replied, “I was out of line as well. You’re right that we should not cast away our history, no matter how it pains us. Though I think your mother might appreciate it if you referenced it less in polite conversation.”

This startled Maedhros into a laugh. “Quite true, I’m afraid, though I generally take care to be less morbid in her company.”

“And in Fingon’s?” Fingolfin asked, and Maedhros had to take a moment to parse out the question. Once he had, he laughed again.

“Fingon is the only person more likely to make jokes about my formerly missing hand than I am. Though of course he only does it because he knows I find it funny. And with the two of us, we can coordinate the set up and the punchline. You might say we find it handy.” He laughed at his own joke. “In all seriousness, though, Fingon knows that it has never done me any good to hide from my problems, and he accepts that this is what I need.”

Fingolfin noticed, perhaps for the first time, Maedhros’s wedding ring. It was a simple copper band, a perfect match for Fingon’s. Disappointed as his father would have been to hear it, Maedhros had no idea who the smith was. Fingon had gone out one day, and returned with the bands. Maedhros, who had not even been alive for a month, had not been ready to go out into the world.

“Is it why he went to rescue you?” Fingolfin asked, after some time. 

Maedhros considered the question. “You know, I don’t know, rightly. Fingon has always been noble, so perhaps he would have done it for another. If it had been one of my brothers, he would have gone because he knows that would break my heart. But for a stranger? For my father? I ask myself that often enough. I worry, almost constantly, about the person Fingon would have been without me. Would he have been worse of? Or would he have lived, and thrived, and been happy.” Maedhros trailed off, realising he had lost Fingolfin a couple of sentences earlier.

“I would have gone.” Maedhros stared, blankly, until Fingolfin clarified. “For your father, I mean. I walked across all that accursed ice for him, and I would not have let the enemy have him.”

“He would not have done the same for you.”

Fingolfin shook his head, and Maedhros thought, suddenly, madly, that he seemed very young. “I know. I would have gone anyhow. It would have been irrational, and he would not have thanked me, and I would have done it anyways.”

Since it seemed a day for confessions, Maedhros said, “If I had known what I would become, the day Fingon saved my life, I would have made him shoot me, right there. I would have prayed to Oromë to guide his shot. It would have torn him apart, but it might have saved him, saved the people of Doriath and Sirion, might have saved- well, never mind. Perhaps in time, he would still have married, and would have grown to be loved as he deserved to be loved. By someone who wasn’t broken.”

“He would not have thanked you for it.”

“No, he would not have. But perhaps some of those people who might have been spared by my death would have.”

“You do not think your brothers would have acted without you?”

Maedhros shook his head, ruefully. “Oh the contrary, I know they would have. The oath would not have permitted them otherwise. But if the Union of Maedhros had never formed and failed, if Fingon had been alive, then perhaps the world might not have been so susceptible to our madness. And Maglor and Ambarussa alone could never have taken Sirion. Purely on a strategic level, that would have failed.”

Fingolfin looked away, and they maintained their silence for a long time. Maedhros, who had never voiced this to Fingon, knowing it would cause him sorrow, nor to Nerdanel, knowing it would break her heart, felt a great sense of relief. 

“Who else were you going to name, when you were listing the people who might have been saved?” Fingolfin asked, meeting Maedhros’s eyes. 

Maedhros reviewed his own words. “Ah, Elrond and Elros. Turgon’s great-grandchildren. They’re the boys who Maglor and I kidnapped at the Havens. Though in truth that is the most complicated of all the deeds I did in my life.”

“How so?”

Maedhros had not wanted to talk about this with Fingolfin, but having been called on his slip-up, he was forced to explain. “We kidnapped those boys, stole them from their family, drove their parents to these shores, rendering them unable to return, and yet… Eärendil thought to speak for my release, for reasons which I will not pretend to know. Elrond, I know, grew quite attached to us in his younger years, much as I attempted to discourage him. Then, we left them alone, again, to chase after the silmarils. It was- I would do almost anything for those boys to be safe, to be loved, but I- to be raised in a home with a parent who holds a silmaril is a fate I would wish on no one. I saw what they did to my father, who coveted their light even before the oath, and I watched Elwing throw herself from great height, taking her jewel but leaving her sons.”

“You would condemn Elwing as a parent?” Fingolfin asked, though there was little bite to his words.

“I would condemn any parent who chose a silmaril over their children. Even myself, even my father and my brothers. We raised those boys as if they were our own, but she could not have known that. It was her own brothers, after all, who died from our cruelty and carelessness. Elrond and Elros were saved because Maglor is soft hearted, and because they reminded us of Ambarussa, who had just been killed. On another day, they might not have been. And that would have numbered easily among my greatest regrets.” 

Fingolfin leant over, and picked a small flower from between the cobbles of the path that lead to Maedhros and Fingon’s home. It was purple, and had five petals. There were a couple of its like in the garden, which was no doubt where the seed for this wild one had come from. He examined the flower, and ultimately placed it in his breast pocket. After he did this, he spoke again.

“You speak as though you loved them.”

Maedhros fixed his gaze firmly on his feet. “I did, and do. In all save blood, they are my own. Though I know I have no right to be, I could not be prouder of them. Gil-galad has filled me in on Elrond’s deeds as far as he knows them, and though Elros is long passed from this world, it warms my heart to know that he was a great man, and was able to follow his own path, even unto the end.”

“Would you take the place of their parents?”

“In their lives nor their hearts, I would not. If, when, Elrond steps foot on these shores, I shall stay well away. I would not take the chance for him to form a relationship with his parents twice over. If- if he would have me in his life, if he would forgive me, then my joy would be beyond words. But only if he wants it.”

Fingolfin met Maedhros’s eyes. “I fear that I have misjudged you.”

“How so?”

“I judged you as the person I was told you would be, not as the person you are, nor as the person I once knew you to be.”

“I am not who I was.”

“You are both versions of who you were, and someone else entirely. What you shall be tomorrow, I do not know.”

They sat for a moment, regarding one another, before Maedhros heard soft footsteps approaching. Fingon came around the corner, and stared, open mouthed, at his father and his husband sitting close like they were friends. The look on his face was so ridiculous that Maedhros had to stifle a laugh. 

“Peace, Fingon,” Maedhros said through his laughter, “we have made it, and you are free to join in it. My lord?”

Fingolfin nodded, and stood. “I’ll leave you to each other. Findekáno- I’m sorry. If you can forgive me, I would see you again. I was- immature. I don’t know if I can give you my blessing yet. I cannot deny that, if you had never loved, your lives would be easier. Or yours would, my son, at any rate. But- know that you go with my best wishes, at least. Always be assured that I wish you the greatest of fortune.”

He brushed off his robes, even though they were not dirty, and left. Fingon, stunned into silence, said nothing. When Fingolfin was out of sight, he pulled Maedhros to his feet, and drew him into a hug, grasping closely as though he was checking to see that Maedhros was alive. 

“I’m okay, love. Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay. I’m here.” He grasped Fingon close, and bent down to place his head beside Fingon’s. 

“What happened?” Fingon managed to gasp out, “Why was he here?” He started to cry.

Maedhros considered this. Then, he sat Fingon down, for Fingon was not too tall for the cushion-less chair, and told him everything. Though it pained him, he omitted no detail, neither Fingolfin’s confession of loyalty to his elder brother, nor his own confession that some days, he would rather have died upon Thangorodrim. When he was done, Fingon kissed him, softly, with the familiarity of millennia spent dreaming of one another. 

“You know that I would not do it, not shoot you, even if I knew what would happen.” Fingon whispered onto Maedhros’s lips. 

“Then surely you are a fool,” Maedhros returned, “Your life would have been far easier if you had, and even my brothers could not have found fault in your courage.”

Fingon pulled back to look Maedhros dead in the eyes. He was, Maedhros was reminded then, as fierce as he was beautiful. “My life would have been easier if I had stayed put on these shores, followed Finarfin back to beg pardon, or our aunt Findis into meditation. But I would not undo my path across the ice, and I would not undo that that path lead me back to you, though to be frank, I cannot deny wishing that I had found you hale and whole and surrounded by your brothers.”

“Ah, but then you would never have been Fingon the Valiant, merely the irritating cousin with whom their eldest brother was quite madly in love.”

“As though your brothers do not find me irritating anyhow.”

Maedhros laughed, and kissed his husband, and in that moment, more than he had been in long millennia, was at peace. 

\--

Finrod sat in the home of his eldest cousins, and tried to keep an eye on both of them at once. This was rendered more difficult by Fingon, who flitted around the room with nervous energy. Maedhros, for his part, was still as one of his mother’s statues and half as expressive. 

“If this is meant to be an apology for failing to allow me to attend your wedding, then do not bother offering it; I take no offense. I had it from Turno that you wished for it to be a private affair, and if you would not invite in the madness that extending the invitation even as far as me would bring, in this family, then I cannot fault it.”

Maedhros’s stormy eyes flickered briefly to his hands, then he summoned the strength to meet Finrod’s once more. “It is less a matter of apologizing for failing to invite you to the wedding, and more a matter of failing to invite you to the wedding because I did not wish to spend it apologizing.”

Finrod considered the twist of words. It was more something that Maglor was likely to have said than his brother, but the hair and Fingon more than gave away which Fëanorion this was. “And what are you supposed to have to apologize to me for, cousin? I was eaten by wolves of the literal rather than the metaphorical sort.”

Maedhros raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. Maitimo indeed. “Well,” he said, “there is always Curufin and Celegorm.”

Finrod shook his head, hopelessly. “Yes, there is always Curufin and Celegorm, though I would not hold you indebted for your brothers’ ill deeds.”

From behind him, Fingon breathed a sigh of relief. Maedhros, also looking relieved, said, “I would not blame you if you did. I was the eldest, I should have been able to keep them in line.”

Finrod raised his own eyebrow in turn. “If anyone save your father was ever able to keep Celegorm in line when he truly set his mind to something, I did not know them.”

“Ah, but my father could do it.”

“Your father also invented the alphabet and probably did a couple thousand other things that are unparalleled in their success. I’ll not judge you or anyone by his standards.”

Fingon crossed back around the room to sit on the arm of Maedhros’s chair. Maedhros shoved him off, but his smile was fond. Finrod, for his part, had never known of Fingon and Maedhros’s relationship in their first lives, but he had suspected. For almost Finrod’s entire life, Fingon and Maedhros had been deeply attached to one another. There had been hints. Both Fingon’s quests to rescue Maedhros had been two, but there were also less obvious ones. Maglor, who Finrod had always felt was the most observant of the sons of Fëanor, had provided a sign. For years, and years, he had poked fun at Fingon, in song and verse, and then, abruptly, shortly after Maedhros’s rescue, he’d just stopped. When Finrod had asked him about it, he’d been coy and unhelpful. It was very much as though he’d had something to hide. There had also been a party during the Years of the Trees when Finrod and Amarië, looking for an empty room, had found the host’s broom closet occupied by a very shame-faced Maedhros wearing nothing but pants that were half a size too short. That had been a sign that he was certainly getting up to something. 

“Does it bother you?” Fingon asked, after a time, having found a chair of his own. “Us, I mean.”

Finrod shrugged. “I’ve had my suspicions for many years. Mostly, I’m just glad for you. Turno is as well, though it would be like pulling teeth to get him to admit as much. You’ve always been good for one another.”

From there the conversation wandered, to discussion of Finrod’s own, much-delayed, marriage, to speaking of the daily duties of the crown prince, which had once been both Fingon and Maedhros’s and were now Finrod’s. Finrod gave them what news he had of his still-exiled sister, and Fingon told a lively anecdote he’d heard from a spice-vendor the day before. In some ways, Finrod felt distinctly as though he’d slipped back in time. It seemed as if at any moment, Celegorm might come running in, Huan on his heels, or Galadriel would drift in, head in the clouds. But they weren’t just outside. Galadriel was in exile, and Celegorm was, at least metaphorically, even further from Finrod. 

In a lull in conversation, Maedhros said, out of nowhere, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Finrod replied.

“Just- I hadn’t realized how much I had missed talking to people who weren’t so… close to the marriage. I think I’d sort of just trapped myself in the idea of only speaking to people who were either extremely close to me or extremely mad at me. I’m grateful that you’re someone who can just be… my friend?”

Finrod gave Maedhros what he hoped was a generous and winning smile. “Maedhros- of course I’m your friend. You convinced Curufin to give me back that scarf I bought for Amarië, remember? After that, you were guaranteed my friendship for life.”

Fingon and Maedhros both laughed at the memory, and it felt wonderfully light.

\--

“Atar.” Fingon was back in his parent’s sitting room. It had been more than half a year since he was last here, when his father walked away from their conversation, and tore Fingon apart. 

“Finno, it’s good to see you.” His father was as he always was, composed and unmoved. “How is Maedhros?”

“He’s well. We’re well. He’s working on the garden right now. It’s- I don’t know if you care, but-it’s wonderful to see him just living in the moment. Sometimes, he’s so consumed by the past it’s like he’s not there at all, but he gets better every day. He learns to breathe, to hope, to look at today as everything it is and nothing more. You’d think that after spending so long loving one another, we’d be almost sick of it. But we’re not. I’ve never been able to have Maedhros before and had it just be for us. No crown, no duty, no enemy, no silmarils, just him, and me, and those who we choose to share our lives with.”

“That’s good,” Fingolfin said, following this dissertation. 

Fingon looked down at his hands, and twisted his wedding ring. “Why did you ask me here, Atar?”

“Look at me, Fingon,” his father commanded. When Fingon wrenched his head up to meet Fingolfin’s eyes, he continued. “I called you here for two reasons. First and foremost, because I miss you. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I would undo it if I could. I told you when I spoke to Maedhros that I asked your forgiveness, and I would ask it again. You are my son, and you mean the world to me.”

Fingon knew what he wanted to say before his father was even done speaking. He knew it to the very core of his being. “For your anger at my deceit, you are forgiven. I lied to you, for many years, and at that your rage was justified. But for your anger at Maedhros, not because of what he himself has done, but because of his father? I cannot absolve you of that. And what’s more, I am still quite angry that you went to Maedhros behind my back. He handled that well, but you knew that he was newly returned and emotionally vulnerable, and you took advantage of that.”

“Then I shall ask for his forgiveness on that account. I should have given him time, you’re right. That was out of line.”

“Do, and let there be no further anger between us.”

Fingolfin looked down, and Fingon wondered briefly if his father had forgotten his second point. Just as he himself was about to ask, Fingolfin looked back up. “I told you then that I had I was not ready to give you my blessing. For what it still matters, I give it now.”

Fingon, genuinely surprised, asked, “what changed your mind?”

“To be honest, I don’t know if it was one thing. Your mother was- shall we say displeased, with my attitude. She argued quite persuasively on Maedhros’s behalf. Then there was Aredhel. She still sees Celegorm, and apparently though he and Maedhros don’t speak, she feels very strongly about his chances for redemption.”

“That’s not an entirely unbiased opinion on her part.”

“No more biased than my own. And of course, I have to give some credit to Maedhros himself. I’ve spent a long time thinking about our conversation, and have come to the somewhat unsettling conclusion that I hold quite a lot of genuine respect for him. But I think in the end, it was Turgon who delivered the final blow.”

Fingon blinked. He crooked his head, wondering if he’d misheard. Though Turgon had made peace with Maedhros, it was a reluctant kind of peace. Even before the Ice, Turgon had never liked any of the sons of Fëanor, but after it, and after Sirion, he had had more than one reason to dislike Maedhros.

Fingolfin gave a slight smile. “I see that you’re as surprised as I was. Certainly, to my knowledge, Turgon has always disliked Maedhros, and yet… he was right. Much of what he said, he asked me not to repeat, but suffice it to say that it contained both a deeply compelling dissertation on the nature of love, and several rude remarks about Aredhel’s… husband. When he puts his mind to it, your brother can be deeply compelling. Sometimes, I think that we underestimate both his wit and his force of will.”

“They do call him ‘wise’, atar.”

“True enough, though I’m called wise as well, and I don’t feel especially wise at the moment, I must admit.”

Fingon allowed himself to smile at the joke. “And so, for all it’s late, we have your blessing?”

“For all that it matters, which I cannot imagine is much, in the grand scheme of things, you have my blessing. And that of Turgon and Aredhel, I believe. When you see Maedhros, you can tell him ‘thank you’, for me. I imagine you’ve been thanked a rather substantial amount for saving Maedhros.”

“I have,” Fingon admitted. 

“Well, tell him that I thank him in turn for making my son the happiest I’ve ever seen him. 

“I will, and thank you. I’m- I worried that I would lose you, to have Maedhros. It was among the hardest decisions I have ever made, to marry him without your blessing.”

“What made you decide to do so?”

Fingon shrugged. “Selfishly? He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Less selfishly? You have other sons. Maedhros, for all his family, only really has me and Nerdanel.”

To Fingon’s surprise, his father stood, and pulled him into a tight embrace. “I may have other sons,” he said, “but that does not mean you are any less important to me. Never forget that.”

Fingon buried his head in his father’s shoulder, and found himself able to breathe for the first time in the entire conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a thing that sort of wrote itself. Initially, it was going to be three 500 word-ish unconnected stories. But then Fingolfin and Maedhros just kept talking, and now this exists.


End file.
